


missing pieces

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: at last, the dawn [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Feel-good, Fluff, Gen, One Shot, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9949889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: Companion toBlindingandHurricane.





	1. Anaxiphilia

**Author's Note:**

> i have aus growing out of my aus, guys, this is totally self-fulfilment. the one thing i needed to push me to actually write these fic-lets was a little anonymous message to my tumblr asking about Angie and Crawford. thus, this was born.
> 
>  
> 
> **please be aware that these one-shots will have spoilers for the fics named above**
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy! x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n). love for or attraction to unsuitable mates; an act of falling in love with the wrong person.

21 March, 1848

* * *

“You were a good man, once,” Angie tells him quietly. He barely reacts. “To me, at least.”

He won’t answer her. She’s grown to expect this. She continues anyway.

“I know I’m the last person you wish to see, Crawford.” She’s hesitant, her words freezing in her throat as the man begins to turn. He’s bare-faced, but she can see the beginnings of a moustache beginning to grace his upper-lip. A young man becoming a gentleman.

“And yet you come anyway,” he says at last. She’s not yet forgotten the gentleness he used to address her with but there are no traces of it in his voice now. “Why?”

He could kill her where she stands. It’s not a welcome thought. His eyes flit down body; Angie resists the urge to cover her belly.

“I come to ask for mercy.” The words shake as they leave her lips. “Jonathan and I have ceased our Assassin affiliations – we wish for a quiet life now, a quiet life to raise our-“

Crawford’s eyes flit to her belly again; she’s not yet showing but Angie trusts the judgement of her friends, of Millie in particular. The signs are there, Angie knows, and while the spat she’d had with Jonathan had been a hard one, she’s convinced she has made him see sense. No more missions, no more affiliations, _nothing_.

“We will retreat to our home,” Angie says now, an echo of words whispered under the sheets at midnight. “We will live a quiet life and raise our child and we will retreat from this insufferable war.” Jonathan would hate her if he was here, by her side, would hate her if he could hear the words that leave her lips. “London is yours, Crawford.”

Fallen allies are turning in their graves, Angie knows, lost friends and parents long-dead. An Assassin admitting defeat to the Grand Master of the British-Rite of all people. Silent apologies are useless here.

Crawford rises from his high-backed chair, towering over her familiarly. She hates the shiver that runs down her spine, hates that she can’t pinpoint if it’s fear or admiration or love. Her stomach used to be aflutter with butterflies just at the sight of him, despite his cruelty and cunning.

Jonathan is the light and Crawford if the night; oh, so different but both so tempting.

Crawford rounds the wide table and Angie holds his dark eyes – this man will grow to be terrifying, she knows, a force to be reckoned with. And now, London is his – and soon, she knows, the world will be as well.

Her words are a bared whisper, desperation and hope drawing them from her lips. “We have no one left,” she breathes to him. “No one but each other.”

He curtly inclines his head. “Very well.” There’s that gentleness she knows he possesses gone quickly and replaced with words sharp as knives. “Should I see that our agreement has been broken, I will not hesitate to destroy you.” Angie stands still as stone as his hand grazes her belly. “ _All_ of you.”

Her breath catches. The young man she’d known, she’d _loved_ , is gone.

In his place is a man every bit as wicked and ruthless as Reginald Birch. Her parents are turning in their graves.

“Thank you.” Her reply is soft but cold. There’s nothing between them anymore she knows, nothing but rueful memories and lost opportunities, nothing but epiphanies and speculations; how different things might have been, in another life. How different things might have been if she’d chosen Crawford instead of Jonathan.

“I trust our business here is concluded.” His tone is clipped; he returns to his desk and stands silhouetted against the large window. Hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the city, _his_ city, there’s still a hope that keeps her wishing to stay.

But she’s overstayed her welcome. “It is.” Over her shoulder when she reaches the door, her fingers curled around the bronze, she tells him sincerely, “Thank you.”

* * *

He sends her a bouquet of dark red roses the morning after Charlotte’s birth. They bloom beautifully on the windowsill in her little girl’s nursery, a reconciliation gift from one love to another.

* * *

 

Crawford meets her twenty years later, a beautiful woman the spitting image of Evangeline Crawley, with fire and rage in her eyes, standing before the grave of her parents. He tells her legacies can be rebuilt, a passing on, Charlotte will never know, of words once said to him by her mother.

He ponders what might have been when he leaves, wonders what he might have taught her if Charlotte had been _his_ , and wishes he could turn back the clock and change everything.

To turn back the clock and change it all…

They once told him he was ruthless, a Grand Master more worthy of the title than Reginald Birch himself. If only he had proven it to his Evangeline twenty years ago – he could have given her the life she _deserved_ , her and her child.

Such petty emotions of love.

He casts away those thoughts, and turns his attention to the Shroud that will soon be within in his grasp.


	2. Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n). the low rumble of distant thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. first: _sorry_  
>  second: the next one-shot will be happier, i promise.

24 November, 1890

* * *

 

Emmett _screams_.

It’s all Georgie can hear for days, ringing in her ears in a horrible echo that haunts and torments. Her hands shake while her eyes burn but the tears won’t come. She sits in the garden on the stone bench near the window, recalls misty mornings and sunny afternoons spent on the stone with her mother, and hates that the only thing she feels is _empty_.

Emmett screams and sobs and rages and Jacob is silent and anguished and Georgiana is _empty_.

The footsteps that join her are brisk but quiet, the form familiar when she sits next to her in the cold of the evening. It’s raining, fitting weather, Georgie thinks, for the woman they’ve lost. An aged hand reaches for Georgie’s, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently in comfort.

Georgie stares at the fountain, the grey stone dark and water disturbed only by the light rainfall from the sky.

“She saved me,” she admits in a whisper.

“I know,” her aunt says. Evie’s always been Georgie’s favourite teacher, her favourite Mentor, but she’s not her mother and Georgie knows that the lessons she learned from Lottie can never be replaced by comforting words from Evie Frye.

Georgie’s fingers fiddle with the cuff of her sleeve. “I should have been here.”

“Don’t start that now,” says Evie.

“I shouldn’t have gone to Paris… I was chasing a ridiculous fantasy – look how that turned out.”

“It’s not a fantasy.” Evie pauses. Wise fingers adjust Georgie’s gauntlet, inspect the new design, the reworked phantom blade gifted to her by the Parisian Brotherhood. “Lottie asked you to go there for a reason.”

“I _know_ that.” Her words are cold, cold where they should be furious and fiery. “Mum _told_ me that. She could have at least _given_ me the reason.”

A ridiculous errand had sent Georgie to France, searching for answers to questions Lottie didn’t even have. Georgie had been so hell-bent on ensuring that she returned to London with _some_ thing to show for her efforts that she hadn’t even known how bad things were at home. Georgie had found peace and tranquillity studying the Parisian Brotherhood, peace she hasn’t known since she aided Evie’s in releasing the hold Jack’s Terror had on London.

“They couldn’t even _tell_ me anything about that woman,” Georgie says in a rush, studying the raindrops that decorate her boot. “She’s a ghost, like mum said. She just… _disappears_.”

Lottie spoke often of the lost woman, the woman with fiery curls of hair not unlike Georgie’s own. She’d poured over journals and notes, working herself to exhaustion searching for someone Georgie doubts existed at all.

“Kenway’s journal talks about her being French,” Georgie continues, her voice rising to a shout as she stands, the beginnings of a bottled rage rising within her, “but they’ve _never even heard of her_!” She spins, lashing out at the nearest tree with a closed fist and barely reacting as her skin splits in the connection. “For all I know,” she continues, softer, as finally, _finally_ , she starts to feel _something_ , “she sent me there to get me away from her and _this_.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Evie has stood as well but it’s Jacob who has spoken, standing in the doorway with his shoulders slumped and his eyes rimmed red. There’s a nasty scar along his left eye – Georgie still remembers the sight of him below that asylum, the long road to recovery and her mother’s relieved sobs when they’d brought him home. He’d told her he was proud of her, she remembers, and while she’s never thought of him as her father she finds she liked that.

She can’t look at him. “I don’t know anything anymore.” _My mother is dead_.

“The illness crept up on us,” Jacob tells her. He’s closer now, close enough that she knows if Lottie was here, her mother would be encouraging him on from the window. “By the time we realised, it was already too late.”

“Don’t.” She inhales shakily, gathers her thoughts and her strength. “Please don’t.”

“It crept up on us,” he repeats raggedly. He gently reaches for her elbow, encourages her to turn and look at him. “She was planning to surprise you when you came home – she painted these ridiculous banners and all sorts. Was having a cake made because she missed your birthday while you were over with the frogs.”

A ragged sob breaks free of her restrained control. She shakes her head but doesn’t push away as Jacob draws her close to him for a hug. She remembers nightmares as a little girl, of Lottie in the kitchen and a cup of tea between her small hands. She remembers feeling safe in Jacob’s arms as he took her to bed and soothed her fears. She remembers watching him with her mother and wishing she could find someone who cared like that.

But then she’d grown up. Then she’d been on the outside as their _real_ child came into the world, and Georgie had realised how pointless those dreams had been.

“I’m sorry,” Jacob whispers. He’s rubbing his hand along her back soothingly, his face buried in her hair as finally, Georgie feels _something_. “I’m so sorry.”

She hears a low rumble of thunder from far away, over London, but over Crawley it rains and rains and shows no signs of stopping soon.


	3. Serein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n). the fine, light rain that falls from a clear sky at sunset or in the early hours of the night; evening serenity.

 13 September, 2012

* * *

 

"So, you're an Assassin, huh?"

Amelie rolls her eyes, helps him adjust the ice pack he's holding over his eye. "So are you. And Lucy. And Shaun _and_ Rebecca."

"No, I mean... you're a _real_ Assassin." Desmond pauses, reaches between them to the bowl of cold, unappetising pasta Amelie had been uninterestedly munching on before his eye had made contact with her elbow. "Initiated and everything."

"Suppose so," she reluctantly agrees. "I've never thought of it as that big of a deal before."

"What, a member of a murdering organisation trying to protect the world from _another_ murdering organisation? That's not a big deal?"

Amelie nods. "I see your point."

Desmond adjusts his position on the counter-top, follows her eyes to the window and the rain sliding down the glass pane. He winces as he moves his hand, brushing over a tender spot of skin, and Amelie's moving before she can think it through; her hand rests gently over his, their bodies closer than she anticipates or expects. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. Amelie tries not to think about how much he looks alike his ancestors, how close of a resemblance there is between the videos Lucy managed to sneakily email to them and the real thing sitting in front of her.

"I really am sorry about that," she insists quietly. Her eyes leave his dark ones to follow the winding pattern of the tattoo on his arm.

"Don't be," Desmond replies. "I _wish_ I had your instincts."

"You will." Amelie tries not to think about how _easy_ it is for him, lying back in the Animus and subconsciously learning it all. She doesn't want to be bitter towards him when he's helping, doesn't want to hate him for the years of struggling she had before she even came _close_ to the fight. "Give it time."

"Must really grind your gears, huh." He sees right through her, she realises. He's studying the scars on her arms, on her collar; adjusting her position and leaning away from him does nothing but make his eyes flit towards more of the skin her clothes don't cover. "That this is so easy for me."

"It's not easy for you," she says. She's thinking of Sixteen, of Lucy's stories, of his end. "It's a shortcut, yes, but you're in more danger than I ever was."

"I don't believe that," he says with his mouth full. "Your mom was always carting you around, right? Never in one place for too long. Sounds pretty dangerous to me."

"Maybe," Amelie concedes, "but there's never been any threat of me losing my mind every time I train."

There's a pause. The sun is setting over the city, casting the sky in glows of orange and pink. Amelie thinks of a sunset over Paris, of training into the night with her mother and the French Brotherhood. Sunsets were her mother's favourite part of the day.

"Why didn't you ever leave?" Desmond asks. He lowers his hand; his skin is an angry red Amelie knows will bruise nastily. "Why _don't_ you leave?"

 _My blood is not my own_ , she thinks, a flicker of a memory of a man she'd met briefly with her mother. She can't remember his name now, only that he was about to lose everything.

Her thumb traces the words tattooed on her wrist and she says the phrase aloud. "Crawley's don't give up," she says. "Even when we should."

Desmond repeats the words too. "That's pretty freaking awesome," he says.

She nudges him in the side. "Yours is better," she tells him. "Descended right from the Crusades _and_ the Italian Renaissance." She sees the tension in his shoulders, the sudden coldness that perpetrates the room, and doesn't try to mention his other ancestors, the ones she's pretty sure no one's even told him about yet. "That's pretty cool."

"Yeah." The joy has gone from Desmond's eyes. "No pressure, right?"

Amelie gets it. The pressure to become something remembered by the Brotherhood but forgotten by history. Her mother knew all the names of Desmond's ancestors, said them often to Amelie and hated that her daughter hadn't picked them up that quickly. Solange Crawley idolised them, remembered them, and wished for Amelie to have an impact like them.

"No pressure," she murmurs in agreement. 


	4. Lacuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n). a blank space; a missing part.

19 February, 1875

* * *

"Any news?"

"None." Lottie brandishes the letters in her hand but does not relinquish them to Jacob when he approaches. "She's not in Paris. The Berlin and Rome Brotherhoods also report no strangers in their Bureaus."

He lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently; a touch that once reassured her now only angers her. "She'll turn up, love. Georgie knows how to look after herself."

Lottie stands. Jacob's hand falls between their bodies as she coldly brushes past him, tossing the letters into the fire as she passes. He follows, he always does; guilt trails after his actions and poisons his words and Lottie loves him and hates him in equal measure for it.

A letter sits on the nightstand of her side of the bed, placed there so delicately after restless nights spent tossing and turning and _worrying_. Words unsaid haunt her, a single letter laid upon the comforter of a bed in a cold room with a window wide open.

' _I'll be alright, mum. Don't worry about me._ '

 _Easier said than done, my love. Easier said than done_.

"Four months," she says softly to Jacob. Her husband takes it for the invitation it is, crossing the room to her and embracing her from behind. Their reflections in the window appear ghostly, haunted, dark circles under Lottie's eyes and tired lines around Jacob's. Lottie's nightmares have begun to flare, ghastly images of Lynch with demon-like eyes and clawed fingers, clutching at Georgie and ripping into her throat with jagged teeth.

" _I can never save her_!" Lottie cries upon waking, as Jacob holds her close and shushes her. " _I'm always too late_!"

"I know, love," Jacob says then and now. "I know."

"She's still a child, Jacob," Lottie murmurs.

"Some would say the same of you when you were her age."

Lottie pulls away. "Please, don't remind me." She shudders; seven years and she still feels those wounds, fresh and open and horrid. Seven years and his voice still whispers in her ear – _dear Lottie, dear Lottie. So weak, dear Lottie, no wonder you couldn't save them_.

"Here, now," Jacob says. She accepts his arms willingly, lets him hush her and soothe her, lets him rub his hand in circles on her back and kiss her hair. "We'll find her."

"What if we don't?" She pulls back, occupies her shaking fingers by adjusting his loosely knotted tie. "Four months and no word, Jacob. She would have... she would have written to us, to _me_ , by now? Wouldn't she?"

"We don't know what's going through her head right now, love," Jacob tells her gently. "We don't know what's brought all this on."

"She's gone off on her own before, I _know_." She's speaking to distract herself, to stop herself from lingering too long on the nasty truth: Georgie might be dead, lying rotting in a ditch somewhere, one more ghost to haunt Lottie to an early grave. "But she's always come back within days. Jacob..."

"Four months, I know." He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Even for Georgie, this is dramatic."

"I've always been able to tell what she's thinking," Lottie breathes. Her brows are furrowed in thought as she strives to solve the unsolvable. "But lately... with Emmett... Oh, God, Jacob you don't think our son is the reason, do you?"

"Georgie loves Emmett," Jacob soothes. "Emmett is _not_ the reason."

"This is my fault," Lottie murmurs. "It is, isn't it? You went off to India with Jack and I made Georgie stay here with me because I had Emmett to care for and... oh, God, she feels cheated out of a learning opportunity, doesn't she?"

"We don't know what she's thinking, Lottie," Jacob insists. His hands are on her shoulders and he's dipped to stand at her height, knees bent as he carefully brushes her hair out of her eyes. "But you are not at fault, stop thinking like that!" He presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "I'll write to Evie again – perhaps she can shed some light on what Georgie's thinking."

Lottie nods numbly. She's never been bothered before that Evie was always Georgie's favourite teacher but now, with the prospect that her sister-in-law may know where Georgie is when her mother doesn't... She tries to feel grateful, tries to remember that it isn't important to feel jealous right now, but it pricks at the back of her mind.

"I'll ask Jack the Lad to scout out her favourite places again," Jacob tells her on her way to the door. "Maybe there's something we've missed."

Lottie's blood runs cold. "No," she says. "I'll go myself."

Jacob frowns. "Lottie, I trust Jack-"

"I know you do." The words are said coldly and Lottie regrets the peeved expression that crosses Jacob's features; they've danced this dance before, stepped on each other's toes and spat in each other's faces. "I'll go myself."

"I'm not letting you go alone, Lottie, not when you're like this –"

"I don't want that boy anywhere _near_ –"

"Jack's fully grown now, Lottie, you can't keep –"

"- fully grown, yes, and capable of who _knows_ what, Jacob!"

"Lottie, come _on_ –"

"Surely you've seen the way he –"

"Don't be absurd –"

"- looks at Georgie, at _Emmett_! I don't like it, Jacob!"

"- he's a good lad, Lottie! He's had a tough life, leave him alone!"

"Mama?"

Emmett is teary-eyed and tiny, clutching tightly to a worn teddy bear that breaks Lottie's heart. One small fist at his chin as his bottom lip trembles, he holds the bear out to Jacob when the man bends to lift his son into his arms. The bear seems so small in Jacob's hand compared to Emmett's; the dirty thing is missing an ear and an arm, with various previous tears patched together with mismatching squares of quilt.

All different colours and designs and patterns, all cut from the same owner's quilt: Georgie's.

"You should be in bed," Jacob reprimands softly. Lottie takes the bear from Jacob, running a finger over lopsided and sloppy stitches of black thread. Georgie loved this bear almost as much as she loves Emmett – she turned the city upside down searching for it when Emmett misplaced it one afternoon. "Eh? How about your mum and me tuck you in, hm?"

Emmett reaches out small, grasping hands for his bear. "Where's Georgie?"

An innocent question from an innocent child. An innocent question with a nightmarish answer: _we don't know, love_.

"Let's get you to bed, little man," Lottie murmurs. "Your father and I are sorry that we woke you."

Emmett's room is one of the largest in the house, every wall a different colour. Lottie remembers that day clearly; screams of delight as Georgie had followed her little brother's every command, the mess of her daughter's clothes when Emmett finally tired himself out and fell asleep.

"Little rascal," Georgie had called him fondly.

 _Emmett is not the reason_.

 _So what is_?

"Send Beth and Ethan," Lottie says, as they stand in the quiet hall listening to Emmett's soft snores. "Beth is her closest friend."

He wants to argue more, she knows he does, but Lottie's exhausted, he knows she is, and their son wants their wandering daughter. He nods in conceded agreement with a soft sigh and wordlessly holds his hand out for her to take.


	5. Opia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n). the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter of hurricane is coming along a lot slower than i want, so have this missing piece that's been bothering me forever ~

7 November 2016

* * *

 

"Can we trust her?"

Moussa throws the woman a considering look, assessing her quietly, but Cal had seen the brief flicker of astonishment when she'd introduced herself. She'd been snippy and rushed and blood-speckled, with bright, sparkling green eyes hidden behind curls of burning red hair, and  _some_ thing had rippled between the other Assassins at his side;  _recognition_.

She'd reached for her hood and drawn it again, fingertips stained with dried blood. "Amelie," she'd said, already turning to leave. "Amelie Crawley. Get a move on."

Now, she stands silhouetted against the orange glow of streetlights streaming in through the window, phone to her ear as she relays information and retrieves orders. Cal is freshly showered and smelling like moringa, feeling the weight of the Apple still in his pocket. Amelie hasn't asked to see it and he hasn't offered; this is his duty, the responsibility passed through his family. One mistake already saw the Templars have it in their grasp, he is loath to make the same twice in a row.

Lin, ever quiet, has retreated to one of the bedrooms to rest. Moussa, after much stalling and pressing, waiting for Amelie to speak again, is now in the shower. Cal knows Moussa won't comment on the lack of moringa shower gel, even if part of him wants to be acknowledged for finishing the bottle off. Moussa, instead, will act like it's all meant to be like that.

At the window, the Master Assassin hangs up.

"We're moving in the morning," Amelie says. She pockets the phone with a sigh, studying the street below one last time. "We need to get that artefact to the right people."

Cal is sceptical. "The right people?"

She levels a bored stare his way. "The Brotherhood." Cal can almost hear the ' _duh_.'

"I didn't think there were that many of you left."

"Of  _us_ ," she corrects. Amelie removes her coat and throws it across the back of the sunken sofa. She's dressed so  _normally_ , he thinks, wearing jeans and a tank top, looking every bit like an ordinary young woman and not a murderer and  _Assassin_. Cal watches her reflection in the cracked television screen, watches as she rolls her neck and shoulders, loosening tight knots of stress. On her shoulder is an unclear splodge of black – a tattoo?

She leans on the back of the sofa, arms across her chest. "Or was I lied to just now?"

Cal swallows. A moment passes. Another.

"I'm still adjusting," he tells her.

"Well adjust  _fast_."

Amelie Crawley is just a girl to him, younger than him by a good decade, yet she acts like she's carrying the weight of the world in a backpack on her shoulders. She might be strong, might be dangerous and lovely on the eyes, but Cal thinks he can see those straps digging into her skin, the red marks across her shoulders betraying her waning strength.

There are scars on every inch of the skin he can see, pale white and pink, healed and healing alike. Cal has spent his whole life on the run, living in the shadows like his father told him. Amelie has spent her life fighting the good fight, wearing the scars of her mistakes on her skin.

She shifts under his relentless and interested stare and turns away, hands tugging at a hair-tie around her wrist. The other one is bandaged, lengths of white fabric wound around and around, another secret in this new ally's life. She winds her tangled mess of curls into a knot on her head and secures it there, revealing to him more scars and secrets; wide white ridges of risen skin poke out from the edges of her shirt, wounds that Cal knows must have been painful.

"Got on the wrong side of a barfight?"

Amelie ignores him. Cal doesn't mind; his eyes have now latched onto the dark splodge he'd seen on her shoulder; a bird, all black and grey ink, swooping in a downward arc towards her spine. There's a splash of blue behind its wings, a shade he's seen only in pictures of the clearest sea in the Caribbean. A loose curl of her red hair trails along its tail feathers, hastily tucked away before it can bother her too much.

"What's that? A crow?"

Amelie freezes, her coat in her hand, fingers reaching into the pocket to retrieve the phone. She looks over her shoulder to him, a strange exhaustion suddenly on her face.

"No," she says softly. She looks him dead in the eye. "A jackdaw."

**Author's Note:**

> fyi: these one shots _are_ connected but they are not in order. maybe when i have a few more i'll get round to sorting them into chronological! :)


End file.
